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THREE OF THE SOLDIER BOYS 

(from a TINTYPE TAKEN IN KENTUCKY IN 1861 ) 





Tke Soldier Boy 
She Lost 


By 


y. 


Mrs. KatKerine SmitK-Spencer 



Burdick-Allen-Dietas Co., Milwaukee. 




"1 




Copyrighted 1919 


h$ 

MRS. W. L. SPENCER 



©CI.A530317 

JUL 24 ly/y 


< \ Co 


DEDICATION 

TO 

My Motker 

and her 
Soldier Bo^s 




\ 



The Soldier Boy She Lost 

I. 

4 6 p UT up your playthings now, dearies. Time 
to pull out the trundle-bed !” 

“We haven’t any playthings to pick up tonight, 
mother. Since you went up to grandmother’s 
room to tuck her in, we have been looking at pic- 
tures.” , . } 

A fair-haired boy arose from his kneeling po- 
sition on the floor, where, spread out, was the 
large-sheeted copy of Harper’s Weekly of the 
early days. The sad face of Abraham Lincoln 
was pictured there, and over this the blue-eyed 
boy had concentrated his thoughts which now and 
then were spoken as he took lingering glances at 
the page below him. 

“Why does he look so sad, mother, when his 
little boy stands so close to him ? I should think 
he would be happy to have such a nice little boy 
— father always smiles when I cuddle up to him. 
Abraham Lincoln always looks so sad to me, 
mother.” Without waiting for the mother’s re- 
ply to his question, the little fellow continued: 
“Grandmother says it is because the spirit moves 


2 THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 

so deeply within his heart. Today she said, when 
we were talking about him, ‘Thee knows, does 
thee not, dear, that a great question is on his 
mind, that the spirit may move him to speak the 
words, “To Arms.” Thee knows it must make 
him sad to say, “My countrymen, thee must fight 
for the Stars and Stripes, and the poor slaves/ ” 

“Grandmother loves peace,” said the mother, 
“and even when she feels the cause is just, it 
would grieve her but in this case she might call 
the sword holy should it free the blackmen, 
many of whom she had sheltered and helped to 
pass on to freedom.” 

“Yes, by way of the ‘Underground Railway;’ 
she has told me all about it.” 

At this juncture a dark-eyed little girl who all 
this time had still been turning the pages, over 
which the two children had been gazing, spoke out 
in quickness of tone, as she somewhat rudely 
closed the magazine on the floor. 

“I do wish brother wouldn’t be so serious ; I 
thought he never would let me turn the page. 
I’d rather look at Mrs. Lincoln, when she is 
just stepping into the great ballroom with her 
pretty dress. Mr. Lincoln was there too — at a ball 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 3 

— so now he must smile sometimes — one can’t 
look solemn at a ball !” 

The little girl had risen, and stood with rosy 
cheeks and somewhat flashing eyes at the gentle 
young boy who still was under the spell of the 
sad looking face. 

“Come on, let’s pull out the trundle-bed,” kneel- 
ing beside the tall four-poster, reaching her 
hand under the side for a pull on the little bed 
beneath. 

“You can’t do it alone, let me help, sister.” 
Together they drew out the snow white trundle- 
bed with its equally white pillows and coverlet, 
and while they were made ready for bed the 
two prattled as little folks will until the time to 
kneel at their mother’s side for the “Now I lay me 
down to sleep.” 

When they were nestled underneath the snow- 
white covers, they talked earnestly of the pic- 
tures in the book. 

“What color do you suppose Mrs. Lincoln’s 
dress was?” said sister. 

“I think it was white, and lace on it. She had 
roses in her hair,” she added. 

“I think, sister, they had Mr. Lincoln standing 
sideways so we couldn’t see his face.” 


4 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 


“Oh, don’t talk about that, I know it is sober,” 
complained little sister. 

“But, sister, if there should be war, father and 
all the boys in the office would have to go to 
fight.” 

“Who’d set the type and get the paper wrote up 
then, I’d like to know,” inquired the little sis- 
ter. 

“Yes, I know, but they’d just have to go! They 
would all volunteer though, I am sure they 
would.” 

“I’m glad now,” declared little sister, “but I 
used to cry when grandmother would tell me 
about how she let the big shears fall and how 
they cut open father’s big toe, it was little then, 
but it was his big toe anyway, so he is lame, and 
they won’t take lame men. They can’t kill him, 
anyway !” 

“Oh, sister, you don’t seem to feel any of the 
spirit working in you. Grandmother says, and 
she is a Quakeress, too, that she would give up 
her boys, all of them, if need be, and I told her I’d 
give up father and Edward and Charlie and 
Thomas,” and the boy paused while a tear found 
its way to the pillow from the blue eyes, “and 
Johnnie, too. I wish I were a man, I’d go too !” 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 5 

“Oh, dear me,” cried the little sister, “what 
would I do if you should go. I don’t like to talk 
about war, I just shiver all over.” 

“That’s ’cause you are a girl !” 

“Seems to me my little boy and girl do not get 
to sleep as they should,” gently admonished the 
mother. “Cuddle down, and don’t talk any more. 
Bruce, my boy, would you like mother to play for 
you ?” 

“Yes, mother, play the 'Cot Beside the Sea,’ 
answered Kitty for him. “He likes that so well, 
and then play me, 'Jimmy’s on the Stormy Sea. 
No, that will make Bruce cry. Play 'The 
Frog He Would a- Wooing Go’.” 

“Very well, dearies, anything to please you.” 
The pretty, dark-eyed mother did not sit down to 
a piano, neither did she reach for the violin, the 
guitar or mandolin, but, seating herself in a rock- 
ing chair close by the trundle-bed she drew from 
the pocket of her dress a jew’s-harp, and, placing 
it between her lips, she drew forth with just the 
tip of her finger, the sweetest of music. As note 
after note of the sweet old melodies came from 
the tiny instrument, notes soft and tender like 
those of music afar off, so soothing in effect, the 
children became quiet, and soon were in slumber, 


6 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 


deep and restful, such as only comes to those of 
tender years. 

No sooner had the music ceased and the mother 
resumed her evening work on some dainty article 
than a voice called, as footsteps sounded in the 
hall. 

“Are the babes awake ?” A bright face peeped 
in the room from the door ajar, followed by a 
jolly laugh which mother tried to hush. 

“Keep still, Charlie, don’t make such a noise. 
You can’t have your romp to-night.” 

“We thought, Mother Libbie, we would get 
home early enough for that, but the old press 
broke down and it took all hands to fix it. Papa 
Joseph will be here soon ; he had a thought or two 
to write before he could leave. Things look bad, 
mighty blue, and so serious that one can feel in 
the air the call to arms. We will all go sure 
enough, and mighty glad we are old enough.” 

All this, and more, came from the lips of the 
four printer boys as they settled themselves about 
the room in the comfortable chairs, drawing them 
up close to the table to get near to the little mother 
they all loved. She was not their real mother; 
they were her boys, nevertheless, and to them she 
gave the best of her attributes, most freely and 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 7 

generously; her admonitions were firmly though 
pleasantly administered, which fact made good 
impressions upon their minds, lasting and bene- 
ficial. Her home was their home, her comforts 
theirs. In illness she was their tender nurse. Her 
best thoughts were shared with them. Could an 
own mother have done more? 

And now that a shadow of disaster was hover- 
ing about them, increasing each day, growing 
darker and deeper, they little knew how her ten- 
der heart silently quivered, how she pondered 
night and day over the fact that, as the shadows 
grew, she could see them march away when the 
dread summons should come, her four brave 
printer boys! Down would go the sticks and 
rules, the old lever press would feel the strength 
of strangers’ arms, the home would be desolate 
of their merry, boyish voices. 

She glanced up from her needlework, looking 
from one face to another, and gathered from their 
talk knowledge of the patriotism which imbued 
them. At the subsidence of their conversation, 
she told them of the children’s talk about the new 
pictures of President and Mrs. Lincoln, and of 
the thoughts which were uppermost in the young 
minds, suggested by the illustrations. 


8 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 


One by one the boys softly stepped to the side 
of the trundle-bed and gazed at the two little ones 
they loved. 

“Dear little Bruce with his golden locks,” said 
one. “He is a smart little chap,” said another. 
So the evening passed, such a one as they long re- 
membered. The mother folded the dainty piece 
of work as she bade the boys good-night, folded 
and laid it in the little work basket, and for four 
longs years there it lay, while her busy fingers 
fashioned only warm mittens, socks, and com- 
forters, long and wide to wind about the necks 
and shoulders of Uncle Sam’s brave soldier boys 1 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 


9 


II. 

f V HERE was a gay frolic next morning in the 
garden among the plum trees, and the bright 
sunshine of April, 1861, played its part to bright- 
en the scene. The white petals of the plum 
blossoms fell about the yard like the first gentle 
fall of snowflakes. The boys and the children 
were racing and romping underneath the branch- 
es, from whence the birds had flown, alarmed by 
the merry voices. 

“O, Edward, Charlie has tossed my dollie way 
up in the highest branch,” called Kitty. “Never 
mind, dear, we’ll get her,” and away scrambled 
gentle Edward, with Thomas holding the little 
girl up to catch the treasure. 

Johnny said, “Now, Charlie, what a torment 
you always are !” 

Charlie begged pardon by showering kisses 
upon the offended little face, when she had the 
dollie once more hugged to her heart. “I’ll never 
do it again, never ! Come on, Bruce, come with 
us to the corner.” 


10 THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 

“May I go way down with the boys, mother? 
I will not stay long.” 

But the promise was quite forgotten when, 
as they neared the main street, such excitement 
prevailed. Men were standing in groups all along 
the street, business was suspended. Something 
terrible had happened. The printer boys bound- 
ed up the stairs to the office and were soon busy, 
their fingers flew about the type cases; the old 
press groaned while the extra papers came out! 

Mother Libbie, at home about her duties, was 
startled when the voice of her little boy called, 
“Mother, mother, Fort Something has been fired 
on!” 

“O, my boy, you must mean Fort Sumter ! Can 
it be possible?” 

“Yes, mother, that is it, and war is coming! 
Where is my sword and drum and my soldier 
cap?” 

The animated little form vanished into the 
depths of the little “cubby hole” closet under the 
stairs, where it rummaged about awhile and 
emerged with the accoutrements of war. Buckling 
the tiny sword about his lithe little body, donning 
the soldier cap, and grabbing the drum, away he 
flew, yes, and his tin horn added to the list, “a 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 11 

rub-a-dub-dub, a-rub-a-dub-dub, a-rub-a-dub-dub, 
a-rub-a-dub-dub,” and almost at the first sound 
little boys from all quarters of the neighborhood 
seemed to have gathered as if by magic and the 
excitement grew great as the news of “Fort Some- 
thing’s” downfall was repeated. 

“Bruce is captain, come on boys !” a shout went 
up. 

“O, you have to be drafted or volunteer, so 
come on up to the office and get some paper,” said 
Bruce. 

Off they trudged, talking and shouting all at 
once along the way, up the stairs to the bindery, 
made a dive into the “tub” where they waded 
about in search of strips of paper. 

In a secluded corner of the office they im- 
provised a table, where the little captain, who 
seemed delegated without protest, pencil in hand, 
put down the names in line of the brave “Lincoln 
volunteers,” youthful in the extreme. 

And the big boys who were to be the real sol- 
diers were writing their names on the list, the 
brave volunteers, young men from all conditions 
of life, in the cities and from the countrysides, 
from offices, factories and mills, rich and poor, 


12 THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 

fathers and sons, all for the cause of the Union 
and the freeing of the blackman from bondage. 

The four printer boys were not so gay as on the 
tvening before; even the little trundle-bed had 
been allowed to maintain its daytime position 
under the four-poster, which fact showed that the 
children were still awake, waiting for the boys, 
and when, after the excitement of the day, their 
footsteps were heard on the walk outside, there 
was no merry laughs, but four sober boys came 
quietly in, and with outstretched arms and tear- 
ful eyes, received the benediction from dear 
Mother Libbie, “My dear, brave boys, God bless 
you.” 

Little Bruce rushed into the arms of first one 
and then another of the boys, his eyes sparkling 
with patriotism and pride. But little sister put 
in a protest to all this show of feeling by wailing, 
“I don’t want the boys to go to any mean war 
and get killed, I don’t. I wish every one of them 
had smashed toes, I do!” 

Soon the streets were lined with marching feet, 
men in bright soldierly array, the brilliant uni- 
forms of the officers adding luster to the scenes. 

Many a gay young girl watched the procession 
slyly from behind partly closed blinds, hearts 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 13 

beating time to the music of the bands as they 
played, “O, I heard the drums beat, and the music 
so sweet, as they marched through the town to the 
foot of the street, and the captain with his 
whiskers took a sly glance at me.” 

Just outside of town the tents were pitched, the 
camp fires reddened the sky at evening, the boys 
singing and laughing, but in the strains of the 
gayest song there was a note of sadness, and the 
laughter was bravado, for there were thoughts of 
the weeping mothers and sweethearts dreading 
the parting so soon to come. 

As a last parting of the way, the company 
formed in line and up the street it came marching 
to the depot, where it was to take the train which 
would bear it away to the sunny south. 

Crowds of people thronged the platform to bid 
the brave boys farewell, and amidst shouts and 
turmoil arose the sobs piteously rung from hearts 
of fathers, mothers, sisters and brothers, lovers 
and little children. 

Bruce and little sister were held high in the 
arms of their parents, crying for the four dear 
printer boys. The tears ran down the boys’ 
sad faces as they mumured, “Dear little Bruce!” 


14 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 


III. 

'C' OR months Mother Libbie heard the tramp 
of little feet up and down the board walk 
before and at the side of the house. 

“Present arms!” “Halt!” “Forward, march!” 
were the words that she heard, day after day. 

The little company, armed with tin swords and 
sticks, carrying all sorts of drums, horns, and 
whistles from old Santa’s generous bag, kept up 
the patriotism which their elders engendered in 
the little hearts by the constant “returns” which 
formed the topic of discussion day after day, 
month after month. 

When the rain came down in heavy showers at 
night, often a voice from the trundle-bed would 
call, “Mother, are you awake?” 

“Yes, dear, I am. What do you wish?” 

“Do you hear it rain, mother?” 

“Yes, pet, go to sleep, never mind it.” 

“Mother, don’t you think the boys are out in 
it, way down South?” 

“Maybe it doesn’t rain there.” 

“I’m afraid it does.” 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 15 

Or when the cold snapped the boards outside, 
this same little voice would call, “Mother, I am 
afraid the boys are cold.” 

“We will hurry the packing of the boxes in the 
morning; go to sleep, dear.” 

Again the voice would call, “Mother, maybe 
there has been another battle, do you s’pose the 
boys are in it?” Little Bruce could not sleep, 
always thinking of the boys. 

There was the packing of the boxes with lots 
and lots of warm clothing and good things to eat 
which would keep, on the long journey. It seemed 
that for the four years of the war a box always 
stood in Mother Libbie’s sitting room, either 
partly packed or just ready to be nailed and sent 
on its way. 

Some mother or sister was always coming in to 
see if there was room in the box to tuck some- 
thing more. Here comes a pretty girl with a pair 
of mittens she has just finished! As Mother 
Libbie kindly finds a place for them, she feels the 
impress of a tintype, or some keepsake, the sly 
young thing is sending to her sweetheart in blue ! 

There were the latest war songs, “The Girl I 
Left Behind Me,” “Marching through Georgia,” 


16 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 


“There Will be One Vacant Chair,” “Tramp, 
Tramp, the Boys Come Marching,” and many 
more, all known to the jew’s-harp which Mother 
Libbie always carried in her pocket and which she 
played with Bruce as an accompaniment to his 
drum. 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 


17 


IV. 

i Y^OES thee think, grandmother, that the war 
will ever end ?” 

“•’Tis long, Bruce, dear. Does thee want to see 
the boys?” 

“Yes, grandmother, when will Mr. Lincoln let 
them come home?” 

“Thee knows as well as I. We can none of us 
tell.” 

“Poor Mr. Lincoln, every picture makes him 
look sadder, grandmother,” 

“Yes, it’s the thought of the brave soldier boys; 
so many have given up their lives.” 

“I am afraid to look at the list any more when 
it comes to the office. I am so afraid to look at 
the Bs and Mcs for fear, O, I can’t say it,” the 
boy sobbed!” 

“Thee does not like war, does thee, Bruce? 
There is much Quaker blood in thy veins ! It is 
only when I think of the misery of the poor slaves 
fleeing for their liberty — many, many of them 
have I sheltered from the cold and helped to hide 


18 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 


from pursuing masters — that I can reconcile 
myself to the war. 

“In the early day,” continued grandmother, 
“when we had the 'Underground Railway,’ Re- 
becca, my neighbor, had only to place a candle in 
her north window to give me the sign that she 
would pass on some poor slave, maybe dressed in 
her own Quaker gown. 

“I remember once that thy uncle, my first 
born, wished very much at Christmas-time for a 
tree from the pine forest near our home, which 
he wished to trim with popcorn and bright holly 
berries to please the children, but his father, thy 
grandfather, said, 'It is a shame to wish to cut 
the little pine tree for a few hours’ pleasure when 
it has been growing in the sunshine and shade all 
these years ; leave it rather to grow to be a great 
tree, and then its trunk and branches can be used 
to some good purpose!’ 

“But I persuaded him to cut one little tree for 
the children’s joy at such a happy time of the year. 
So the morning of Christmas day he gathered the 
children about him, and, with axe in hand, he 
took them into the forest to help him select the 
little tree. 

“Thy uncle lingered at my side and whispered 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 19 

in my ear, ‘Mother, thee had the sign from neigh- 
bor Rebecca, didn’t thee ? Do not think me rude, 
mother, but I have learned to know the sign and 
to know when thee is watching for a poor slave. 
Thee always cleans the candlestick that fits the 
north window sill, and to-day I saw thee do it. 
Give me thy confidence, mother, I will not betray 
thee.’ 

“How could I resist such an earnest plea from 
the boy of my heart? I told him he was right, 
that when the darkness came a black man of the 
South, and I must guard him, would come, and 
that I had put the candle in the window, ready to 
light, so that our neighbor on that side could 
help, too, and thus guide the fugitive to his lib- 
erty. Rebecca had him in her safe keeping and 
would pass him on to me. When I saw her light 
in the window I must be on the outlook. 

“Merry, indeed, with the pretty tree will thee 
be. But I must keep a lookout. Now go with 
thy father.” 

Away he ran to catch up with the other chil- 
dren. Father allowed them to choose the tree 
with its bright green branches. With steady 
strokes of the axe it fell, and the children shouted 
with joy. They drew it across the white snow 


20 THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 

and on into the house. They shelled and popped 
corn which they strung and hung on the tree, 
with pretty red berries and the loving gifts. I 
had made a Santa Claus outfit for thy uncle; 
he was a boy of fourteen years, so he was to be 
Old Santa. Out of some rather thick paper I 
had made a mask for his face, and father had 
brought in a string of bells from the barn. 

“Through all the fun and frolic I kept an eye 
on the watch for neighbor Rebecca’s fugitive 
while the children were having their evening’s en- 
joyment. 

“In the midst of it suddenly the door opened, 
and a poor negro rushed into the room, almost 
dead with fright, crying as he dropped on his 
knees at my feet, ‘Hide me, hide me, Mother 
Miriam, hide me, ’fore dey gits me; dey is close 
on, a-comin’ fast as they ken to put de chains on 
me. Hide me quick, for de Lord sake.’ 

“Quick as a flash thy uncle had grabbed the 
poor creature by his arm and pulled him into my 
bedroom, and off came the Santa Claus outfit and 
on to the dazed negro, mask and all; the sleigh 
bells were thrown round his neck, while he danced 
about in gay spirits as he was told to play that he 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 21 

was old St. Nick. It was done just in time, for 
in rushed the white men who were on his trail. 

“ ‘A gay time you are having this Christmas 
evening! Merry Christmas and Happy New Year 
to you all/ they shouted. 'What a fine Santa 
you have !” ’ 

“And then they made bold to search the house 
for the negro who had run away. Upstairs and 
down, in cellar and garret, out in the barn, all 
about they went. The merry time went on in the 
house, where Old Santa wasted no time in jingling 
his bells and making fun for the children, all of 
whom took in the situation. Finally the men 
went on, feeling sure no negro was about the 
place. We put the black Santa to bed, after giv- 
ing him a warm supper. How he blest us, espe- 
cially my thoughtful boy, for if he had* not used 
his wits so promptly, the poor negro would have 
been captured and taken back into slavery. And 
now Mr. Lincoln would free them all! 

“If thee were a man, Bruce, thee would go 
like the boys and your uncle, my first born. It 
breaks my heart when I think maybe the latter 
may this very moment be near death.” 

There was a sob at the door. Mother Libbie 
came in and threw her arms about the dear 


22 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 


Quaker grandmother, crying, “Thee must be 
brave, mother, indeed thee must,” and the poor 
grandmother knew that her first born had fallen 
in the great cause ! 

Alas, little Bruce ! War’s horrors increased for 
him. His only thought was for the boys. Neigh- 
bor after neighbor fell in the strife. Up and 
down the list their names brought sorrow to the 
boy. He grew pale, and seemed less enthusiastic 
in calling his company for duty. He was longing 
for the companionship of the merry printer boys 
who had tossed and tumbled him about in their 
play or had held him tenderly in their arms, tell- 
ing him stories and singing him songs. The 
thought of the shot and shell, the bayonets and 
swords flying above and about and piercing the 
hearts of the brave men filled him with agony lest 
the boys should be the victims. 

The pages of Harper’s Weekly pictured it all 
vividly. The children spent much time looking at 
the terrors depicted on the pages, and at the sight 
of the pictured battles the tears fell, and an awful 
fear stole into their tender hearts, the fear of 
childhood, which children alone can fathom. 

It was in this state of mind that little Bruce was 
given a surprise. Papa Joe brought home with 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 23 

him one evening just as the children were about 
to nestle in the trundle-bed, a little square box for 
Mother Libbie from her soldier boys. 

On opening it, she found that it contained a 
picture at which she gazed a moment with tears 
in her eyes, then handed it to Bruce. He gave 
one look at the faces, then showered them with 
kisses. The next instant he had thrown the pic- 
ture on the floor and with his bare feet jumped 
upon it, shouting in high glee as if he were 
wrestling with the real boys in one of their old 
play spells. Then he picked up the picture and 
stood gazing at it, with his little sister looking 
over his shoulder, long and earnestly. At last he 
cried, “They are homesick, mother, homesick. 
Look at their sad faces, just like Mr. Lincoln’s. 
They don’t like war, mother, see how long their 
hair is, and how they sit, so bent over. They are 
tired, mother, and most sick. Even their coats 
are crumpled up; they have been out in the cold 
and rain.” 

The little heart was near to breaking, as he 
cried out : “Where is my sword and my flag and 
my drum? I’ll never play soldier again!” 

Going over to the chair where he had put them 
when he came in from “drill,” taking the little 


24 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 


sword in hand, he sheathed it, saying, “I felt just 
as though I was sticking it right into one of the 
boys when we had a battle to-day. I’ll never 
touch it again. I'll break up the company !” 

“You’ll be a deserter then, Bruce,” said little 
sister, “and they shoot deserters.” 

“I know that ; I’ll let them shoot me ! I want 
the boys ! I never will play soldier again !” 

The next morning Mother Libbie heard one 
beat of the little drum, loud and long, and from 
out one and another front door, over back fences, 
from behind huge woodpiles, from some lofty 
tree-top, came the little boys of the company. 

Bruce stood waiting for them with a face as 
sad and serious as Mr. Lincoln’s. 

“Boys,” he said, as they gathered about him, 
“I can’t be your captain any longer.” 

“O, go long now,” “O, come on now,” “Say, 
what is the matter with you, anyhow?” Thus 
shouted the boys with one accord. 

“It is all too sad. When we make a 'charge’ 
I feel it is all real, and that we are sticking our 
bayonets and running our swords right into them. 
I don’t like war and I don’t like to play war.” 

The boys were silent as they looked at the 
earnest face of their captain. 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 25 

Softly from the open window came the music 
from the jew’s-harp, “We will rally round the flag 
boys, we’ll rally once again, shouting the battle 
cry of freedom!” 

As soon as Bruce heard the encouraging tune, 
he, like many a real worn-out soldier, seizing the 
flag and whirling it high in mid-air, shouted, 
“Come on, boys, let’s rally once again, let’s drive 
it into them.” 

It needed but the word of the brave little “cap- 
tain,” when they all formed into line, and once 
again the voice of command fell on Mother Lib- 
bie’s ear, “Present arms!” “Forward, march!” 
“Halt!” “Charge!” With flags flying, drums 
beating, horns tooting, up and down, the brave 
company went marching down the street. 


26 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 


V. 

■M OTHER, it’s a long time since we have 
heard from Edward, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, dear.” There was a note of worriment in 
the mother’s voice. 

“We have heard from the other boys quite 
often, haven’t we?” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“But since the last battle Edward hasn’t writ- 
ten, mother.” 

“No, dear.” 

“There wasn*t any Me in the list. Where do 
you think he is ?” 

“Do not worry, dear, we will soon hear from 
him.” 

To himself little Bruce was thinking that dear 
Edward might be sick with fever ; or he might be 
wounded, or in the cruel prison, the pen, where 
like sheep they were driven; the place of filth, 
rats and disease, sapping the precious lives away ! 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 


27 


All the evening the sober little face had grown 
feverish. There was a shadow of unrest on 
Mother Libbie’s face. 

At night from the trundle-bed her little boy 
called, “Mother, I want a drink of water, please. 
I feel sick.” In an instant the mother was at the 
side of her boy. 

For days the thought of war, its terrors from 
shot and shell, sickness and death, the wounded, 
even her own soldier boys were, for the great 
anxiety, almost forgotten, while she watched over 
her little soldier boy at home. A nation might 
lose its just cause; to Mother Libbie and Papa Joe 
the one thought was centered in the sick boy. Day 
and night, amid his suffering and delirium, the 
child called the names of the boys, and far away 
in the sunny South they were gathered about the 
camp fire, thinking of the dear ones in Mother 
Libbie’s home; they were tired, wasted, hungry, 
homesick, with a longing for her fireside, wonder- 
ing if all were well with their adopted home. 

At last the little soldier boy grew better. He 
could sit in Papa Joe’s big arm chair with the 
warm comforter wrapped about him. He could 
rest there a while and little sister could sit beside 
him. She must not tell him, though, that Mr. 


28 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 


Lincoln’s face was more sad, that the little boy 
who had stood at his side in the picture had died, 
and that she was so very sorry for poor Mrs. 
Lincoln, too. She must not tell him that no word 
had come from Edward. He did not ask again 
about it, but seemed to feel that the boys would 
come home. 

“Get me a pencil and paper, sister, please, I 
want to print a letter,” and with much labor from 
his weakness he traced the words : 

Dear Johnny: 

I love you. Come home. 

Your Bruce. 

Then he was gently laid on his bed, quite tired 
out from the exertion of sitting up and printing 
the loving message. 

After he was seemingly rested, he looked up 
into his mother’s face and said, “Mother, the 
boys will all come home to you. Don’t you worry 
any more.” 

And when their hopes were highest that their 
little boy would live, when the awful anxiety for 
days had been lessened, like the suddenness of the 
lightning’s deathly stroke came a relapse. The blue 
eyes of the little soldier boy were closed forever ; 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 29 

the golden curly locks fell about the fair brow 
which had given promise of a noble manhood. 

The little captain gave no commands. The 
comrades gathered about him, weeping for their 
brave leader. The swords were sheathed, the 
drum silent. No marching up and down the 
street ; no shouting ; no songs of liberty from the 
.lips of the young patriots. The sweet sounds were 
never heard again from the jew’s-harp which had 
roused the weary company to rally round the flag. 

Far away in the southern fields of war the boys 
were shouting with glee about an open box which 
was filled with the dainties from home. All joined 
hands about it and danced for joy. Comrades 
shared its contents, until, like magic, the good 
home viands disappeared, and sitting about the 
camp fires all the boys were silent, thinking of the 
dear ones at home who had thought of them so 
tenderly. 

Out upon the evening air came the music of 
the song, “We Are Tenting Tonight on the Old 
Camp Ground/' and soft and low the sad song 
echoed through the trees, “We Shall Meet, But 
We Shall Miss Him." The shadows of the lonely 
boys among the trees and tents made by the bright 


30 THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 

fires showed many forms bent and faces cast 
down with sadness for the dear ones at home. 

An inquiry was made for Captain Thomas. 
When he was located among the group about the 
open box of goodies, a telegram was handed to 
him. “Our Bruce is dead.” 

Over the hearts of the boys for whom the sad 
message was intended a sorrow was cast, deep and 
terrible in its intensity. 

Could it be possible that they should never 
again see the dear little boy who was so beloved 
by them all! No words could come for a while, 
as they thought of the sorrow which had come 
to the kind friends in their adopted home. The 
tears fell in pity for them. 

The camp fires never seemed so sad to them 
with the fitful light; the songs never so heart- 
felt. Three sad, homesick boys turned to their 
tents and wrapped their blankets about them, and 
tried to forget their sorrow in sleep, which would 
not come. Then, too, Edward was among the 
missing, which thought added to their sorrow. 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 


31 


VI. 

* 6 jyj OTHER,” it was little sister who spoke, 
“Bruce couldn’t have endured not hearing 
from Edward. Oh, where do you think he is?” 

“We may never know, dear, we can only hope.” 

But months went by and no word from him. 

“How earnestly Bruce had said they would all 
come home; it seemed as if he knew,” sighed 
little sister. She had to bear the burden of war 
alone now. And how lonely the trundle-bed 
seemed to her! Her whole world was changed. 
Young as she was, her great sorrow caused the 
merry laugh for which she was noted to cease, 
and the lively little girl to become more gentle 
and quiet. 

The uncertainty of Edward’s fate hung like a 
pall over the hearts of his loved ones at home. 

In the stillness of night, alone in her bed, little 
sister pictured in her mind a lonely grave or the 
dismal prison, and she thought “which is he in ?” 

There came news of the battle of Chickamauga, 
Sept. 20, 1863. 


32 THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 

Soon after the battle a letter came which bore 
the glad news that Edward was living, but alas, 
a prisoner of war. 

He had been taken to Richmond, Va., where he 
was confined for a month on Belle Isle, and from 
there he was removed to Danville, Virginia, 
where he was kept from December until April, 
1864, and there he wrote to Papa Joe. 

There were months of suspense to follow, when 
no' word came from him, and the fear was that in 
these disease-laden prisons he had lost his health, 
and maybe he had died. Afterwards it was 
learned that the poor, homesick soldier had been 
sent to Andersonville prison, then to Charleston, 
S. C., then to Florence, S. C., where he was 
paroled at the close of the war. He was the last 
of the four printer boys to reach home. 

When he came ’twas only a ghost of his former 
self. Pale to ghastliness, thin until the poor 
frame seemed likely to fall apart. 

“Don’t tell little sister that he has come,” said 
Papa Joe. “Let’s see if she will know him after 
all these long four years.” 

As she came into the house from school, at the 
top of the stairs there stood an apparition! Was 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 33 

it a ghost? Was it a phantom? Not so to little 
sister. 

‘‘Oh, it is my dear Edward !” 

Bounding up the stairs, she threw her arms 
about his neck, crying and laughing, kissing and 
hugging him. There they stood for a moment 
with clasped hands, when little sister whispered, 
“He said you would all come home.” 

When the future promised a glorious result 
with the safety of the Union, when the sad-faced 
man had given freedom to the colored race from 
the bondage of slavery’s chains; when the soldier 
boys who were spared the war’s terrible carnage 
came marching home victorious, the great com- 
mander-in-chief, Abraham Lincoln, was slain — 
just when the sun of his beneficence was greatest. 

“Oh, how could little Bruce have borne the sad- 
ness of it; how could he, with his tenderness and 
love for the sad-faced man have endured to see 
the people in their sorrow, wringing their hands 
and weeping?” 

Evening has come, and Mother Libbie has 
gathered her four brave boys to her hearthstone 


once more. 


34 


THE SOLDIER BOY SHE LOST 


“My four brave boys have all come home, 

How bright the sun does shine ! 

They’ve all come home from out the war, 
Those four dear boys of mine.” 

But she sighed and grieved for the little soldier 
boy she lost. 

















